


the way forward

by kinpika



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Artistic liberties taken with the Dreaming City, Seeking the truth, Spoilers for Black Armory, When the god-queen leaves a message for you and you're left running after, minor existential crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 22:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17211605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: And Sif drops into a free fall. Arms spread, eyes closed. Behind her eyelids, the scene plays out once more. A ghost, waking the recently deceased. Not so unusual in the grand scheme of things, except this was a special case. Just as an alarm goes off in her helmet, telling her impact imminent, Sif rights herself around, catching on a tree, a rock, before landing in a roll. Only the slightest strain to her joints, that Mim fixes right up.





	the way forward

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by that cutscene. Also realised I'd never posted any of my Destiny fics so SHRUGS here we go

Strange to think, that the further from the Well they were, the lighter the air felt. Sif lowers the speed on her sparrow, coming to the edge of one particularly sharp cliff. Nothing to suggest Taken, Fallen, or even Hive, were present. She couldn’t remember the last time something had felt so _empty_ and peaceful. Dismounting from her sparrow, Sif stands at the edge of the cliff, toes just hanging over the edge. Ignores the lurch of her stomach, which happens every time, without fail anyway.

Mim appears then, a little chirp of concern as he flutters around her head. “Are you sure this is what we should be doing?”

No, she wasn’t sure, and judging by how Mim seemed to squabble at that, he’d heard. “I have to be sure.”

And Sif drops into a free fall. Arms spread, eyes closed. Behind her eyelids, the scene plays out once more. A ghost, waking the recently deceased. Not so unusual in the grand scheme of things, except this was a special case. Just as an alarm goes off in her helmet, telling her impact imminent, Sif rights herself around, catching on a tree, a rock, before landing in a roll. Only the slightest strain to her joints, that Mim fixes right up.

Constant pace then, one foot in front of the other. Feet kicking up water, crystal clear and untouched. Sif remembered Mars, buried deep within the remains of scorched land. Old cities, covered in sand, but still operating. Mim flicks beside her once more, lighting up as if he wanted to speak once again, only to decide against it. No need to linger on the past, especially not in the face of recent circumstances.

They had arrived at the gazebo, far too late. Whatever pocket of time that the convenient scene had played out in, Sif had found herself footsteps behind. But, the Dreaming City was another plane, another life altogether. Where they had found a sheet and footprints, leading west, she knew they could’ve been standing at the exact moment the scene played out. Or days before it had even been a thought in the back of a little Ghost’s mind.

Materialising beside her once again was her sparrow, and in one smooth movement she is on the seat, kicking off again. Not even the sound of waves fills her ears. Everything was quiet, thrumming of energy under her fingers.

Sif had assumed, early on, it was to do with the connection. **Re** connection. Finally stepping back into what was once her home, as she had spent nearly a year being pelted with comments, accusations and whispers, each and every time she had returned to the Reef. Yet there was no whisper, just the beat of a drum somewhere in her veins, and expanse of untouched land before her.

Even though Mim kept up a constant pace, she had to stop eventually. Like a continuous scene playing out, there was only so much they land they could cover before it all looked the same. Even if the water sparkled and the green of the grass moved in an unfelt wind, the Dreaming City was determined to keep its secrets hidden. A newly reborn guardian was amongst those secrets, hidden somewhere in the rolling hills and glittering caves. Sif stared up at once particularly open cave, noting the flowers, untouched and not at all suggestive of recent activity, considering for nearly the fifteenth time that day alone she had been fooled.

“Mim, do you feel anything nearby?”

Only once had Sif been witness to the rebirth of a guardian. It was _moving_ , in a way that she had never thought about before. A Ghost, referred to as Glitch by others, almost failed in bringing their guardian back. But when they had, Sif had been doused in the light. Left her thrumming for hours, unable to shake the static out of her fingers, as they had led the new guardian to the Tower. Hundreds of questions fired at once, speaking of everything and nothing at once. Only recently deceased, compared to others. No name, no home, no fear. But _new_.

Sif does not think of her own grave, somewhere in the Cosmodrome, where the ground had begun to reclaim her bones.

No, she only thinks of that familiar brush, along the back of her hand. A guiding light, that has Mim turned suddenly facing north, hard north. Through the entrance of one particular cave, where the crystals glowed a bright blue, as if they had just met the Traveller’s light.

“You don’t think…?” Trailing off, Sif looks over at how Mim seems to stare, solely and in place. “Mim?”

For his part, Mim flutters. “I don’t know what to think,” he says, voice quiet and faraway. “Should we go in?”

Answering his question by kicking up the sparrow into gear again, speeding towards the cave, Sif doesn’t speak. Barely waits for the transmat, as she heads inside. Mim does not hide, lighting up the path. Now do they see footprints that suggest movement and life far from everything else. Soft ones, with only a few marks to the glittering gems and stones in the walls. Signs of a struggle? 

“Sif?”

Mim rises then, from somewhere he had been looking himself. In an attempt to carry something a little heavier than himself, he stumbles, or as much as a Ghost could. Sif crosses the area in two quick steps, retrieving what Mim had tried to show, barely able to stop herself from all but ripping the cloak from where it hovered above the ground.

Recognisable, even with several new tears and almost carrying the entire beach with it. Running her fingers over worn gold weaving, Sif isn’t sure what her reaction should be. Save for dropping the cloak back to the ground, ignoring how Mim flitters around it, scanning even though they both knew what it meant. Sif goes to run a hand over her face before remembering ‘ah, helmet’, and removes it. Tucks it under her arm, blinks in the dark.

Even the air tasted different, so far from the Well. Had it been any other day, she might’ve made a note of it in her field journal, except Mim continues to bob along the path, leading further into the cave. “There’s more footprints…”

Dropping the cloak, Sif follows Mim. Had it been any other day, she might’ve dragged her fingers along the wall, touching the stones, and how her reflection stared back. Perhaps, she would’ve noticed that her skin was just a shade bluer, eyes just a fraction lighter. As if the Well couldn’t drag her back, and she was ridding herself of some curse.

It matters not, when the footprints continue out the other side of the cave, into crystal clear daylight. Affixing her helmet once more, sensors adjust to the light, scanners picking up movement and prospective paths. Even if they disappear as a stream approaches, Sif doesn’t stop. Finds telltale signs of nature being moved by something foreign, and her feet barely touch the ground as she’s running again.

Scrambles up the side of a cliff, to find that she had been waylaid. Whilst her path did in fact end where she stood, crouching beside the edge, there was nothing. As if they had been suddenly turned around, and _gone_. Poof. Just like that. Sif presses through bushes, finding no traces of old ships or sparrows, to suggest they had taken the usual route out, when a new guardian found themselves brought to life again.

Sif holds a finger to her helmet, trying to scour channels. Any activity, local and long range, to suggest that her target had appeared, unwarranted, where others may recognise his face. Mim echoes the signals, not at all letting her gaze go, as they find nothing. _Hear_ nothing, would be appropriate. A mixed blessing of course, that they would not have to rush back to the Tower, in an attempt to stop anything violent. Or even just to contend with the Reef, and how they would feel to see their Forsaken Prince walking amongst the living once more.

With a passing thought to Petra, and how she had not allowed herself to cry, Sif thumbs at the communicators once more. She should've said something in the first place, truly. Whilst her presence wasn’t unwelcome, as many Reefborn had seemed to accept that she was no longer the Sif many others remembered, a barely bowing effort had been given, before her sparrow took her away.

Seconds away from tuning into Petra’s line, Mim’s voice makes her jump. “There! Over there!”

She does not hesitate to curse, but follows just where Mim had been focusing. Sif can’t stop the slight slide of her lower lip, when she realised why she should’ve known better. Of course the footprints ended at the edge. Only because someone had decided to jump a gorge, throwing themselves to the other side. At her squint, prints highlight once more, leading further upwards. Far above the cave they had wandered through even existed.

Perched in a tree, one that reached a gnarled limb towards the sky, was where he sat. Sif thought that was almost appropriate. Lowering herself into the bushes, she retrieves her rifle, swinging it upwards. From where she could see through her scope, in his hand his Ghost spun and jumped. So out in the open, so dangerous. Eye flicking back across to where Uldren sat, a content look on his face, Sif couldn’t deny the cold fury that ate at her gut.

She told herself she would be better. Another shift, and the sights are set on the glittering purple shell once more. But it was just so easy to end it, quickly and painlessly, before anyone else caught wind of just what was happening so far away from the Well. In this little area, devoid of the Taken, of curses and witches, Sif could play judge, jury and executioner without a second thought.

Bites her lip, hesitates. The little Ghost rolls, in a way many do when their excitement gets too much to bear. And the expression on Uldren’s face was warm, unfamiliar. _New_. Death had opened another doorway of possibilities, and the Traveller was a tricky bastard at the best of times, when they wanted to be.

It doesn’t stop the way Sif’s finger weighs just a fraction heavier on the trigger, though. No thoughts that would otherwise have her warm stop the trickle of sweat run down the back of her neck. Another roll from the Ghost, and there’s something akin to genuine laughter, unheard, but visible between the crosshairs.

Except, even as she still hadn’t made a decision, Sif couldn’t help the jump at the sudden sight of Mim staring her down once more. Pulls away from her rifle entirely, glaring, mouth open, ready to say varying amounts of obscenities for scaring her _again_ , when she had to pause. Some people said Ghosts weren’t overly expressive, going so far as to say their voices barely gave anything away. Those people hadn’t spent enough time around Ghosts and their funny little behaviours. As Sif lowered her rifle, Mim held a firm gaze — firm, but sad. As if he had suddenly realised something, even after all their time together.

“Mim?” she asks, reaching for him. Her hand finds only air, as Mim almost recoils from her. What he says next was almost painful, as if it made Sif realise what she had committed to.

“You are not a killer of Ghosts.” Voice quiet, but strong. “Don’t do it. Please.”

Throat going dry, Sif finds it hard to swallow. She wasn’t. She couldn’t. Looking up through to where Uldren and his Ghost sat, she couldn’t believe she had considered it. Sif thought of Sundance, in that moment. And the cold that spread, at her death. So much had been lost, and she was willing to repeat it.

Holding her rifle close, as if it would offer some comfort, Sif has to look away from Mim. “I’m sorry.” Voice too thick, muffled. “I don’t—don’t know what came over me.”

Mim doesn’t respond, but Sif knows from the whirrs and clicks, that he was sad, too. Going to wipe at her face, she remembers her helmet once more, ripping it off this time with far less grace. “Okay… okay.” Deep inhale. Throws the rifle away, watching as its glows, disappears. “We’ll just observe. For a few days.” They could spare a few days, of just watching and waiting. From where she could see, it looked like the pair had even fallen asleep, the Ghost in purple no longer dancing.

“Are you sure?” Mim’s voice is not as strong as he would like, judging by how he rolls then. Righting himself once more to speak. “What happens then?”

Sif pushes herself up to sit, fingers digging into dirt, cloak tangled beneath her. What would people say if they saw her like this? _Tragic_. Whatever. Didn’t care. “I don’t know, Mim. Going to have to wait and see.”


End file.
